Warp and Weft
by katyana
Summary: The Weaver leaves a message for her descendants, and speaks of the Undying.


I am Tanaqui Clostisdaughter, but that is not the most familiar of my names. This weaving is not intended to be a spellcoat, for such acts of foolish bravery are now left for others younger than I. No, this is for my daughter, and for her daughters, and for their daughters, in order that should they have need of me, they will be able to find me. So while this is not a spellcoat, it might perhaps be seen as a spell. Although it is often very difficult to tell. You may find it to be simply a very fine piece of weaving.

I am Tanaqui, and I am also Cennoreth. I am also sister to King Hern, sister to the Mage Mallard, grand-daughter of the One and daughter of Anoreth. This is the tale of how I came to be of the Undying; it is not long, and by its end, and provided you have need of me, you will find what you require.

As I have said, my mother and my grandfather are of the Undying. This does not mean much, as there are only two of my siblings yet alive; inheritance certainly helps, but it is not a certainty that those descended of the One are Undying. Indeed, my daughter's daughters' daughters' now number many and all may lay claim to the One's blood, yet I do not believe any of them are of the Undying. And there are those amongst us who have no relation to my grandfather, yet far outlive mortal years. Blood is no claim.

My mother and my grandfather taught me that by allowing one's spirit to be captured in a picture or a model may contribute to loss of mortality. Not the soul; that is evil magecraft, and I do very much hope that you have no business with such behaviour. A simple likeness will do, as a skilled artist may capture the essence of a person with only a few brushstrokes, or in the way a modelled figurine holds its posture. A true artist is often indistinguishable from a witch, or a mage, and a witch or mage is almost always a true artist in some form or another. For me, it is my loom and my weaving. For my brother, his music.

Duck, that is Mallard, my brother, was the first of us to realise that he was undying. I had not seen him for a number of years. Neither of us suited the palace life, and I would keep scandalising Hern by taking lovers but never marrying. I did not tell him that they feared the part of me that is the Witch Cennoreth too much for marriage. I was happy enough. For several years I had not seen any of my siblings, and, living alone and simply as I did, nor had I looked in a mirror. I had suspicions, of course. My hands were not as lined, nor my joints as stiff as they ought to have been for the number of years that I had lived. But I could not know for sure until Mallard burst through my door one morning without knocking, calling at the top of his lungs that he was Undying like mother and Tanamil, and wasn't that remarkable, but what should he do? I was bent over my weaving, so when I turned to look at him saw clearly his look of disappointment when he realised my face was equally smooth. But that is just like Duck. He did not mind really, only he has always liked to be special. I think he is. Moreso than I, at least. He, I am convinced, would have been Undying whatever his path had been. I believe that I am only one because of those wretched spellcoats. I poured myself into them, my thoughts and feelings and doings of months, and worked them in with fingers that at times bled with use. I fixed my own essence in my spellcoats, and so I am Undying. I do not mind. I think that Duck needs someone to remind him that he is not only the great Mage Mallard, but a sulking little brother, still. Gull would do it, but he is not often around. Anyway, he is like Hern and Robin, and never really meant to be Undying, so it is different with him.

I do not offer this as instructions to bind yourself into immortality. I do not believe that can be done intentionally. This is advice, to those who would not run the risk of outliving their siblings and children. It is a hard life, one which only the One may give, and only to those who need it.

But that is my tale. I hope that you have found within it what you sought, or at least something of comfort. I am Cennoreth. I am The Weaver. Fare well.


End file.
